warehouse level

Newcomers Pt 23

“Karen! KAREN!” Creten screamed her name trying to rouse her, even after they pulled him from the rubble and separated him from her vines “KAREN WAKE UP”

“Shut up” Hopkin shouted throwing him to the ground “You wanted to see this, you wanted to see what war was, well here it is” he pointed at Karen laying there.

“This is war, people die, your friends die and maybe even you will die, war is little more than organised murder of thousands or even millions of people. Look, this is the face of war” Hopkins held Creten facing her, tears were flowing freely as he saw her lay there unmoving. He screamed, she had died saving him, she had a choice to either dig her way out of the rubble or save him and she had chosen him without a second thought.

Hopkins’s grasp on his arm loosened and he ran to Karen’s body and shook her.

“No! Oupa! Oupa wake up!”

Oupa in the Benemar language means mother or second mother considering the context. He shook her crying this name laying his head on her body as if trying to hear her heart come back to life. Hopkins knelt down next to him and Creten swung his arms around him, Hopkins was angry he blamed this child for her death. But he also knew that Karen would not want him to, he like all Humans in the Link had felt her fade, felt her die, she was not afraid except for Creten and even though Sharn had begged her to save herself she refused. Even when her body died her mind had lingered in the Link, bidding her final farewells before her voice was little more than a whisper and then gone completely.

“Creten” Hopkins said and he looked into the eyes of the life that Karen had saved. “If I remember correctly in Benemar culture when one sacrifices their life for another, the survivor become as Polintarin, a spirit carrier and holds the spirit of the life that was sacrificed. Correct?”

Creten wiped his tears away and nodded.

“Then you are a Polintarin and you now carry Karen’s spirit. I can think of none more worhty to do so”

Creten looked into Hopkins eyes again seeing no mockery of their ways or beliefs and once more he wept, he felt a presence behind him and turned to see a Human he did not know looking down at him.

“Is this the one?” she asked.

“Yes” Hopkins said standing and taking a step back.

“I am Sharn, Karen’s wife”

Creten’s eyes widened, did she blame him for her death? Did she want revenge?

He knelt before her and exposed the back of his neck, in Benemar culture this means he was offering his life to her. In fact in Benemar culture Sharn had to right to kill him and release the spirit of Karen from his keeping. But she only stood there, as if deciding what to do. Finally she knelt down before him and raised his head and embraced him like a son.

“Thank you for being with her in her final moments”

Creten returned the embrace “I will try to be a worthy Polintarin for Karen”

“If that is to start you need a better name” she said releasing the embrace.

“But I am a creten, we cannot change our names”

“Well now you hold the spirit of a Human and we can, how about…Ceran”

(Pronounced Care-rahn)

His eyes widened “Ceran” he whispered over and over again as if he couldn’t believe it.

“You are no longer an unwanted one, Ceran”


The city had been hit and hit hard, fires were still burning all over the city and the Humans were struggling to get them under control, many shelters had to be emptied less they become buried under the collapsed buildings. In a strange turn the local Benemar offered to help fight the fires and were quickly put to work doing so as the Humans could not afford to refuse. The death toll rose continuously as more bodies were found and thousands more were still missing and it would be likely their remains would never be found.

The bombers that had struck the city were intercepted by three separate squadrons on their return journey, these had been out on patrol and were the very ones the bombers had avoided when they made their run. Now they avenged Geeda, only 29 bombers returned and only 11 of their escorts but the High Chiefs celebrated this assault as a major victory.


Jenkins sat in the control tower watching as the numbers came in, not just the survivors but the dead and the now homeless. It would take weeks to re home them all and probably a few more days before the fires were all out. Not only that, they had discovered the bombers target, their warehouses that held their supplies, nearly all had been levelled and nearly nothing was able to be salvaged.

“You have to admire their precision” Cho said “They knew exactly where those warehouses were”

“Yes, levelling most of the city was just a bonus to them, to try and kill as many of our troops and stretch our resources knowing we would help the population” Jenkins agreed feeling angry.

“This now puts us in an awkward position, it will take us months to resupply to the level we were previously”

Jenkins looked at his second in command “Giving our enemy more time to prepare the defences of Potellan and train their troops”

“So what are our options?”

“Well, we can wait till we are resupplied and drag this war out for at least another year maybe even two, or we can attack now and end it tomorrow, but we may loose the war tomorrow”

“Our enemy wants us to attack now, before we were truly ready” Cho stated “And if we do not, he gains the more time he needs to even call in reinforcements from the Alliance”

“Neither option is particularly inviting” Jenkins sat in thought for a long time “I shall speak to Admiral Winston and Captain Kiev to consult on this. The outcome of this war hangs in the balance”

Cho watched him leave so he may speak to them through the Link in private, he turned his attention back to monitor “Who would have thought a single attack could have such massive ramifications”


“Creten!” Oolana screamed running through the crowed as she saw her son and held him in her arms for a few moments before hitting him over the head. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again, you hear me!”

“I’m sorry mother” he said and she held him close once more.

Malthos came running but when he and his son locked eyes he slowed his pace, Selan was with him but she did not have the same reservations and embraced him.

“Creten” Malthos greeted but he did have a slight smile, he was happy he was okay.

“My name is not Creten any more”

“What?” his father shot at him.

“I have been given a new name, Ceran for I am now a Polintarin”

“Who’s spirit do you carry?” Oolana asked.

“Karen’s, you met her a few days ago”

Oolana’s mind went to that day she found him with her in the bar and how Karen had looked at Creten…Ceran with the pride and love usually seen from a mother.

“Well, my son…Ceran carry her spirit well”

“Cretens cannot change their names” his father said rather harshly.

“But Humans can and the spirit I carry is Human” Ceran replied.

Suddenly there was an uproar as people were shouting at a Human standing on a small stage and he was trying to calm them.

“Please be patient, food and relief supplies are on the way” the Human said holding his hands up.

“You are keeping them for yourself!” shouted one.

“You did this to us!”

“You brought war to our world!”

“You tore our world apart!”

People shouted more and more insults and were working themselves into a frenzy, the few Humans that were present moved their hands to their guns in fear of being attacked. Ceran frowned and took to the stage, some thought he was going to attack the Human but he turned to the crowed calling for them to listen to him. Many there had heard him speak before or knew of him so he stole their attention.

“The Humans did not do this to you, it was the High Chiefs, they sent those bombers knowing full well this city was full of Benemar!”

That made them silent and look at each other, they could not help but agree to that.

“Most of you know me, you know me as Creten, but I a Polintarin and hold the spirit of a Human” He went on to recount what he saw of the bombers and the wall of flame and how the Humans fought hard to defend the city and them. And of how Karen had grabbed him without a second thought and sacrificed her life to save his and did so willingly and without pause.

“I am Ceran now and I hold the spirit of Karen with pride and I will make sure I am worthy vessel for her reside in. And I start by saying truly now and without an ounce of hesitation, the High Chiefs are traitors to our race. It was them and those who came before them that choked our air and burned our soil and made us fight in their wars. The Humans are not here to conquer us, they are here to liberate us! The High Chiefs ordered the destruction of their world and the Humans come here to free us from them. Would they have shown the Humans such quarter as they have shown to you?”

The crowed was silent, a few in the back and out of sight of being identified shouted traitor and when Ceran offered them a chance to come and explain their view they shrunk away.  

“I stand with the Humans…Will you stand with me?”

Hello everyone! Here’s the first set of prompts from the wearywnet! I’ve decided to stick to the theme ‘surreal’ for this week, for a feeling of impending danger and moments strayed from reality. There are seven prompts of varying styles, left as open ended as possible: 

  • “I find you constantly eyeing that portrait. Is there something about it you see that I don’t?”
  • A scene or story taking place in a liminal space such as an abandoned warehouse, roof levels of buildings, quite parks in the city etc.
  • Midnight isn’t the peak of ethereal events anymore. It’s better to be careful at 3 AM.
  • A world where everything is the same, except, your favourite constellation has disappeared from the sky and you need to find it.
  • “If we lose the sense of sight, smell, touch, taste, sound – how do we know we still exist? That everything else still does? What does the loss make us?
  • There is no end to the ocean, if you swim deep enough, it leads to another universe
  • A compass that doesn’t point north all the time, magnets and confusion.

Anyone is welcome to use these prompts, and if there are any requests for prompt sets next week, let me know. You can tag your writing with ‘wearywnet’ so we can see. 

Enjoy writing!

sildae  asked:

#18, brotp. Fives and Rex.

18. “This is without a doubt the stupidest plan you’ve ever had. Of course I’m in.”


Captain Rex sat at his office desk on Coruscant, a broken-down communicator in front of him and two needle nose electric rods in his hands. Impossibly thin wires crisscrossed the tiny circuit board to make even an electrician mildly frustrated. And Rex was no electrician.

Fives walked in, helmet under his arm, just as another wrong touch of the poker shocked Rex through his gloves. He gave a short hiss and shook his hand free of pain.

“Here’s my report from my mission with the 311th,” Fives announced, smiling and plunking down a datapad onto the desktop. “Anytime they need an ARC for a special mission, I volunteer. Look– I even got a tan out there.” He tugged the neck of his undersuit down to reveal no visible color change on his skin.

Rex nodded stiffly, his eyes on the device in front of him. “That’s great. I’ll look it over when I have a moment.” His silence would’ve dismissed anyone else.

But Fives just stood there for the longest time before asking, “Adding slicing to your skillsets? We get those issued, y’know. Just ask for a new one.” 

“Modifying it. I plan on giving it to Ahsoka.” 

Fives froze. He heard all about Ahsoka’s arrest and trial from others in Torrent company as it all had taken place while he was off world, attached to a different brigade. And he’d come back to a commander-less 501st. 

“You know where she is?”

Rex’s jaw clenched. “Not exactly. But I plan on finding her.”

“How?”

“I expect she’ll try to track down her lightsabers. I’ll start looking where she dropped them and go from there.”

Fives at least kept his laughter contained to a halfway-stifled chuckle. He’d already heard the account of the disasterous operation to capture Ahsoka– how it spanned sectors of Coruscant and landed more than a few soldiers in the infirmary. Fives didn’t know Commander Wolffe personally, but still noticed the man had a couple very new, very prominent facial bruises. 

“This is without a doubt the stupidest plan you’ve ever had. Of course I’m in.”

“I didn’t invite you,” the captain said tersely.

“I volunteer for this special mission. You’ll need an ARC. I mean, last time I wasn’t here, you lost our second-in-command.” 

“How about an indefinite special mission as a Kamino janitor?” Rex grumbled, eyes dangerously narrow.

Fives cleared his throat. “Right.”

Despite Rex’s nonexistent plan, Fives tagged along to the industrial sector near the Republic base only for them to waste an hour walking in silence along giant, neverending pipes. Fives wasn’t sure if Rex was searching more for Ahsoka or for Ahsoka’s lightsaber the way his gaze tended to skid along the ground most of the time.

When they spent nearly as long at an old warehouse wandering its many levels, Fives finally gave in to his burning cynicism. “Rex, it’s late. If I were a teenager… which, technically, I am, I’d be out having fun.”

“Ahsoka’s a lot smarter than you, though.”

“Granted. But she loves clones. Personally, I’d stop in at someplace like the 79s. We could check it out, grab a drink, ask around…”

“Are you trying to use this plan to bar hop?” Rex finally broke from his terrain investigation to angle his visor in Fives’ direction. The weight of his displeased gaze was becoming a familiar feeling lately.

“If it just so happens that that’s how it works out, I’m not averse.”

The exhale venting from Rex’s helmet sounded almost feral. “Here’s the new plan: we split up; you go check wherever you suppose she’ll be, and I’ll continue with what I’m doing.”

Fives nodded stiffly. Rex’s temper seemed to grow shorter and shorter the longer he stayed on Coruscant. In fact, Fives couldn’t remember his humor being nonexistent like this since Umbara.

Fives left the captain in the dark warehouse and set out for a higher level where the neon lights congregated almost as densely as the people drawn to bright things. It was surprising to think that only fifteen minute prior he’d been one of two people searching a rundown building on a level that hadn’t seen the sun in centuries. 

Fives took to asking himself, “If I was Ahsoka, where would I be?” It didn’t help that the majority of shops and bars lining the way so appealed to him that they nearly sidetracked him at least twice.

One salon he passed catering to lekkued sentients, brightly advertising a discounted manicure with a lekku buff, made Fives smile. Two steps later, he fought against the flow of foot traffic to return and stare into the wide front windows. There at the counter, her back to him, was a Togruta with blue-and-white striped montrals. 

It couldn’t be that easy.

There was no karkin’ way. 

She turned toward the door and Fives’ jaw almost dropped to see that it was undeniably Ahsoka, wearing dark civilian clothes much more suited to the lower levels of Coruscant. She exited the shop without noticing him, slipping easily into the stream of people plodding along the walkway. Fives tore his helmet off and only with the second attempt at calling her name did he put enough force behind it to break through the din of thousands of sentients.

Ahsoka jolted when she saw him, and for a moment Fives wondered if she was about to escape. But she neared him, crying, “How did you find me?!”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he said with a shrug. He saw her trained gaze sweep their surroundings, the same way she had on countless missions with him when scanning for threats. 

“I can guess why you’re here, though,” she said. “Please don’t tell any of the guys you ran into me. I need some time for now; I’ll get in contact with Rex when I’m ready.” She fidgeted where she stood, glancing at her avenue of escape. 

Apparently no one was in the mood to talk to him today. “Take care of yourself, ‘Soka,” Fives said sincerely before the onset of a playful smile. “How about a kiss to send you off?”

He was already leaning down toward her level.

Ahsoka’s mouth twisted into a grin. “How about no?” She bid him goodbye and with just a couple of steps merged in with the perpetual crowds of Coruscant, leaving Fives with a dying smile.


Rex found Fives leaning on the bar at the 79s halfway through Fives’ second drink.

“What a surprise you’re here,” Rex said, plunking down his helmet and the modified communicator next to the ARC. “Did you look around at all?”

Fives smiled. “Hey, this was your plan. I’m an excellent investigator. I can’t help that no one I’ve asked has seen her.” He gestured to the the nearby patrons– mostly clones– who clearly hadn’t been sober in hours.

“Karkin’ ay. I’m ready to be off this kriffing planet,” Rex grumbled. He ordered himself a boring drink that came in a small glass and clinked it against Fives’ proffered tumbler. 

“You and me both, brother.”

Socrates & Santa: A Dialogue

In a dazed state, Socrates opened his eyes. He surveyed his surroundings in utter bewilderment to find himself in a barren, isolated land. In the nighttime horizon, Socrates could see nothing but snow and ice for as far as his vision afforded him.

Where he was, how he got there—Socrates knew not. The last thing he remembered was drinking the poison he had been sentenced to drink by the ruling class of Athens, and then a bright light, and then…

“Ho ho ho!”

Such an unusual interjection interrupted Socrates from his reverie, and he turned to the sight of an old man, chubby as the day is long, donning a red-and-white jumpsuit and a floury white beard.

Socrates: Why hello there, my new acquaintance. Would you be so kind as to inform me where I have found myself, here on this cold winter’s night?

“Why, don’t you know?” the man cheerfully exclaimed. “This is the North Pole! Ho ho ho!”

And in this instant the oddest thing happened to the already baffled Socrates. As he stared into the eyes of his strange companion, an intense feeling began to overcome him, engulf him, drawing him into a world far beyond the physical. When the feeling had reached its climax, and Socrates could no longer feel his legs nor his arms nor the frigid cold of the night, Socrates’ mind was infiltrated by thousands of words and numbers. Through some innate knowledge, Socrates recognized these chaotic symbols as details about this chunky old man who stood before him.

When the feeling had passed, Socrates spoke.

Socrates: Forgive me, friend, if I do not recognize you. Trust me when I say you should not be offended—I know not even how I got here, nor the date, nor the year. Alas, the only triviality about myself over which I maintain a fair amount of confidence is that I am called Socrates! But in the most sudden flash of insight I seem to have received certain details about you and your enterprise here on the North Pole. Please, allow me to run off these details to you, as I would like confirmation before we continue in our dialogue.

Santa: Ho ho! A flash of insight? That is most unusual, my dear. Well then, run them off.

Socrates: Thank you, my merry friend. If this mysterious insight has served me, your name is Santa Clause. Your mystical existence stems from the combination of two legendary figures—St. Nicholas, a bishop of the Catholic Church known for his generous gift-giving in the early fourth century, and Sinterklaas, a whimsical reimagining of St. Nicholas from the Dutch. In modern times, you, Mr. Clause, are famous across the globe, particularly in the more industrialized nation-states, for flying around the world on your sleigh guided by reindeers, infiltrating homes through the chimneys, and delivering presents your elves have created here at your base on the North Pole. As the story is told, you deliver these gifts annually, on the eve of December 25th. However, despite the optimistic beliefs of young children, you are, in fact, not real.

Santa: Ho ho! That is for the most part true, my very odd friend. However, your flash of insight seems to have misled you on one point: I am very much real! You see me now, don’t you?

Socrates: True. I certainly see you. But that is precisely what troubles me. In my time, I have seen many characters—albeit none so chunky as yourself—in dreams and in visions, whom I later discovered to be but figments of my own imagination. Forgive me if I desire somewhat more tangible proof as to your objective existence. If you will, indulge my ignorance for a moment. What does it mean to be real? It cannot certainly come merely as a result of being perceived, as we have just discovered.

Santa: Why, you’re a clever one! No, I suppose it cannot. But you must see, my most unwanted guest, that if we were to project your skepticism to its logical conclusion then, lay!, then not a single soul but your own could be accepted as real!

Socrates: That is true.

Santa: So, I tell you now, it is all about belief! If you believe in deal old Mr. Clause, then I must be real! And because of the unquestioning belief of millions of loyal children, I will continue to make the world a better place for centuries to come. Ho ho ho!

Socrates: That is certainly a very pleasant thought, this belief of which you speak. Unfortunately, I am riddled with far too many questions regarding the nature of belief to have experienced its assuredly joyous effect in my own life. I would cherish nothing more than to ask of you these questions, for you to relieve of me this doubt, but alas I am unsure how much time I have here with you, and so for the time being I will grant that you are real.

Santa: That’s the spirit!

Socrates: I would like to know though, if you would be so kind, how it is exactly that you make the world a better place.

Santa: What an outrageous question! You certainly are quite ignorant, aren’t you? Come, I’d like to show you something.

Santa snapped his fingers twice and in an instant a red sleigh, guided by nine fully-grown reindeer, appeared in the sky and landed before Socrates and Santa. They hopped in the empty seat, and away they flew.

The night sky, illuminated by the gleaming red nose of the leading reindeer, was nothing short of magnificent. Socrates stared in a contemplative awe as they passed glaciers and icebergs and open ocean and as green and yellow Northern Lights sprinkled against Santa’s enchanted carriage.

Socrates: The view is certainly dazzling, Mr. Clause. May I ask where we are going?

Santa: Tonight, dear Socrates, you will discover how my altruism, selflessness, and all-around jolliness serve to better the whole wide world! Grab the map in the dashboard, if you would be so kind.

Socrates opened the dash and out spilled a pile of assorted items. One item in particular—a Ziplock baggie of white powder—caught Socrates’ eye. He picked it up.

Socrates: What is this?

Santa took the bag from Socrates, opened it, and poured a generous pile of powder onto his open hand.

Santa: This, my old, rugged friend, is the spirit of Christmas. Without this, why, there would be no Christmas! My reindeer would no longer be able to push their body beyond the limits of physics, my elves would no longer be able to work twenty-two-hour shifts, and hot damn if I’d find the motivation to get up in the morning to the nonsensical ramblings of two thousand more spoiled kids. Prancer! Move you’re goddamn legs! Tell me, Socrates, would you like a bump?

Socrates: For now, I will pass on your gracious offer. I am looking at this map, however, and I am a bit confused about something.

Santa: Shoot.

Socrates: I presume these little dots represent the homes at which you stop to deliver your presents each Christmas. If my presumption is correct, then you seem to have the areas marked “Europe,” “Australia,” and “North America” pretty well covered. But for big portions of the rest of the map you have listed only a handful of stops. In fact, there is a quite significant portion of land marked “Africa” upon which you have written, in a large, bold ink, “LOL.” Surely there must be children in these great lands who are in desire of presents?

Santa: Look, I’ll let you in a little secret that the rest of the world knows but is too PC to acknowledge. We run a business here. This isn’t charity—how the hell am I supposed to keep this enterprise going on thank you notes and prayers? If you aren’t paying off Santa his fair share of cookies, well, not to sound crude, but you can go fuck yourself.

Socrates: That doesn’t sound very jolly.

Santa: My heavens, you’re right!

Almost like magic, Santa made the white powder in his hand disappear in one spirited snort.

Santa: That’s better. Hits the fucking spot! Ho ho ho!

Socrates: I’m glad you are feeling well, Mr. Clause, and that you possess justification for skipping over most the globe—as you said, you need to generate a revenue in order to keep your enterprise afloat, lest not a single child receive a gift. But surely you cannot keep your kingdom maintained with only treats of the sugary sort?

Santa: Ho! I can’t get anything past you, can I? Well, if your curiosity is oh so nagging that you must know how I maintain my monopoly on the North Pole, I suppose I shall tell you.

Socrates: I assure you, it is.

Santa: Then fret no more! I will tell you, dear Socrates, as I trust you possess the high class not to expose my arrangement—not that anyone would believe you should you decide to rat. As your flash of insight has no doubt made you aware, I maintain a large warehouse here on the North Pole wherein work a thousand devoted elves to manufacture gifts for the developed world in exchange for their fresh, buttery cookies. The Oreos, the Chips Ahoys!, and my own personal favorite, the snickerdoodles—Oh, how I get wet just thinking of all that cinnamon! What your insight in all probability has neglected to inform you is that I also maintain a second warehouse, buried two-hundred levels of ice below the first. Here, Socrates, is where my real enterprise takes place. Does this not intrigue you?

Socrates: I am most splendidly intrigued.

Santa: How jolly! Then I trust you will not give the reaction of some pussy liberal when I tell you that in this warehouse we develop vast quantities of weaponized plutonium-239. Ho ho ho!

Socrates: You mean to tell me here tonight, my portly pal, that you make nuclear arms? For what reason, I must ask, do you need those?

Santa: Have you ever heard of Jonathan Rodger-Arthur Clause, leader of the South Pole?

Socrates: No, dear Mr. Clause, I can not say that I have heard of this man of whom you speak.

Santa: Exactly! Ho ho ho!

Socrates: You bombed the South Pole? I fail to see how this makes the world a better place.

Santa: Chill out, bro. I’m only fucking with you! Truth be told, I develop nuclear arms because it is a necessary evil in order to maintain my enterprise and provide children with unimaginable happiness! Why, on two buyers alone I have generated enough capital to support my business for half a century! Ho ho!

Socrates glanced down at the map, and at this time two red X’s were abundantly clear. One was placed over a city called “Washington” and the other over a city named “Moscow.”

Socrates: You supply the two most powerful nations with cataclysmic weapons? Does that not mean the North Pole is at the center of a great deal of global instability?

Santa: Why do you think they called it the Cold War? Ho ho ho! I can’t say that these nuclear deliveries haven’t taken their toll on my employees, however. Just look at Rudolph’s nose, for Christ sake.

Socrates: Mr. Clause, you must forgive me if I pry, but—

Here Socrates was interrupted.

Santa: Silence! We have arrived.

Santa slung his slay to the side, directing it on an abrupt path curling downward, swiftly landing atop the roof of a mansion the likes of which Socrates had never seen. Santa jumped out of the slay with a certain depraved jolliness, motioned for Socrates to follow him, slapped one of his reindeer across the face—for no reason Socrates could discern—and leaped down to a lower-level balcony. Socrates joined Mr. Clause on this balcony, and together they peered in to see a woman in her mid-fifties changing into her pajama bottoms.

Santa glared at this semi-naked woman with a resilient lust in his wide, crusty eyes.

Santa: Just look at that ass.

Socrates: And who is she?

Santa: Just one of many of what I call “Santa’s groupies.” Ho ho!

Socrates: But assuredly, Mr. Clause, you do not fornicate with the women for whose children you deliver gifts?

Santa: Hush! Santa has said no such thing. Just between bros, though, I will say that I turned that pussy into a winter wonderland! Ho ho ho!

Socrates: To repeat my remark from before, I fail to see how this makes the world a better place.

Santa: Of course not, dear! Why, I was merely showing you that Santa’s abundant generosity doesn’t come without its perks. Come, peer into this window here, and you will see the magical effect of my existence!

Socrates and Santa directed their attention to the next window over, through which they saw a young boy, no more than seven years of age, playing with a set of small, colorful building blocks.

Santa: They’re called Legos. My elves made them custom for this kid last year. The little bastard hasn’t stopped playing with them since. Just look at that smile! Ho ho!

Socrates: I dare not say the child looks unhappy. But surely this does not justify the vast nuclear operation you have earlier revealed.

Santa: Why, of course not! For you are merely looking at one little boy, my dear Socrates. Now, multiply this kid by a hundred million over, and you have enough smiles to justify even the most catastrophic outcome of a few thousand incy wincy nuclear explosions. Am I not wrong?

Socrates: Perhaps not. But, it troubles me to say, I am unyet convinced. For, if you will humble my imaginative mind, would it not bring forth grand misfortune in the event—

Santa: Silence! Now you know my generosity! Now you know my grandeur!

Again Santa snapped his fingers, just as he did before, and again the reindeer flew to pick them up. Santa and Socrates reentered the slay, and off they went. No words were spoken on this ride back, as Socrates found himself in a deep contemplation of all he had seen in this exceedingly unusual experience. Some minutes later the two landed in the spot at which their encounter had first begun.

Santa: Well, that does it for your personal tour. Tell me, how do you feel now about dear jolly old Santa Clause?

Socrates: May I be completely honest with you?

Santa: Santa should expect nothing less!

Socrates: Well, according to your own words, you have intended to show me your altruism, your selflessness, and your all-around jolliness, but you have come off as nothing short of, in the strictest form of the words, a sexist, narcissistic, materialistic sociopath.

Santa: Yeah? And you have come off as nothing short of a condescending prick.

Socrates: I apologize if my questions have stirred something troubling within you. I have only tried to insert a fresh batch of insight into your most rigid certainties.

Santa: How about I insert a fresh batch of coal into your most rigid asshole?

Socrates: That sounds most unpleasant.

Santa: Believe me, it is. Depending on who it is doing it, that is. Ho ho ho! Well, if you will excuse me, it is our busiest time of year, and I have much work to do—the Easter bunny has been spotted hopping around the North Pole and God help me if this isn’t the year I put a clean bullet between that sneaky shit’s deceptive little eyeballs. I believe I have indulged your ignorance, excessive curiosity, and downright disrespect for long enough. Come, I will take you to my elves. You can bother them with your questions. I’m sure you will have much to bond over—you do share the same ears after all! Ho ho! Santa’s still got it!

And so Santa led Socrates through the bitter cold until they reached an immense factory building, illuminated on all sides by…

(To be continued.)

okay suddenly i have a dire need to talk about underground youth pop cultures of star wars. 1000-alshain, totalpunk-jainasolo, girly-bookworm, star-vault-ofthe-heavens  any one got any headcanons to add?

I’ve had this hc (since i was a wee bit of a child) that there are boy/girl bands and pop-star idols, but since the empire took over and everything became so militarized/industrialized (thinking Coruscant & Corellia mainly) they were banned or highly restricted in their media output -ie. only allowed to produce Empire propaganda basically. A few big names rebelled, Riots, public vandalism the whole bit. Then maybe imprisoned? or worse not heard from again. So it became a huge underground movement. 

Youth gathers in shabby 0-level warehouses, or crypts or anywhere they could get into. Secret concerts, raves and parties. Songs with forbidden lyrics, videos with rebellious imagery. A few stars become notorious for these “traitorous” acts/events. And in their own little way, the youth of the galaxy is rebelling against the system, from the inside.

(also i have this thing about one or two idols actually being informants, putting coded messages or warnings into their songs to aide the Rebel Alliance)

cartersons  asked:

In case you're still doing drabbles Id love Rowaelin and #1 (+ 2 is optional) :)

yes i am basically forever accepting prompts so! (the post is here for reference)

“Come over here and make me.” + “Have you lost your damn mind!?” (I kinda did my own thing but the prompt still stands!!!)


“It’s not up for discussion, Aelin,” Aedion hissed from the kitchen in her apartment. “You’re not going into battle.”

Aelin bared her elongated canines in his direction, temper fuming. “You know what I can do. What I must do.”

“Not while the King of Adarlan still has one of the keys.”

“Magic is back, Aedion,” she begged. “You can’t ask me to idly sit by while Erilea turns into a battlefield.”

He raised glassy eyes, pinned her with a stare that Aelin would remember even in her worst nightmares. “I am not going to spend ten more years of my life wondering if you are alive or not, Aelin. I will not go through that again. You are to stay here for tonight.”

She balled her hands into fists and receeded. “Fine.”

It wasn’t until hours later, when Aelin had changed into one of her her old, lavish nightgowns that she slipped out of bed. She knew the tea her cousin had given her before bed was drugged, so after carefully pouring it out in the sink and exchanging it for steaming water, she pretended to sleep while she waited for him to leave.

It’d been twenty minutes since she’d heard anyone in the apartment. The sun was setting in the horizon out of one of the windows in her room, a strange, feminine warmth wrapping around her body in reassurance. She hadn’t felt that since being in Wendlyn. She shook the feeling off, changing into her fighting gear and arming herself to the teeth.

She stepped out of the warehouse on the bottom level, looking out at the empty streets. Everyone was probably hiding in their homes by now. The bloodshed was bound to be excessive. Aelin rounded a corner, deciding to walk along the Avery until she reached the main square.

Suddenly, a figure attacked her from her right, and she fell to the grass, rolling with the male body. She growled, almost thinking it was Aedion trying to stop her. But the overwhelmingly familiar smell of pine and snow filled her lungs, and she stopped fighting.

Aelin gazed up at Rowan, a smile from ear to ear forming on her face. “You’re here,” she breathed.

His watered down green eyes shone with the same fierce longing she’d felt upon returning to Rifthold without him. But he didn’t smile or tease or hug her. He just pinned her arms down and glared. “Have you lost your damn mind, Aelin?”

She knew what he was talking about before he even said another word. “I’m going to fight, Rowan. They need me.”

And then he surprised her. He leaned in closer, barely an inch away. “How could you even think of going anywhere like that without me?”

“I-I didn’t know if you would get here in time,” she said, hope springing like a flower in her head.

He lessened his hold on her and stood, still clinging to her hands. “I’ll always get here in time, Aelin. You’re my carranam.”

She simply looked up at him, full of a million emotions at once. Rowan allowed a smirk to show, taking a delicate step back. “Now run.”

Aelin shot forward, suddenly a hundred feet away. She grinned mischievously and dared a glance back in his direction. “Come over here and make me.”

Rowan didn’t have to think twice about it. They practically flew through Rifthold, teasing and daring and filling the city with their strange, endless magic as they prepared for war.